


pent up

by LittleMissRainbow



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Akutsu has daddy issues kinda, Character Study, Gen, Growing Up, but hey maybe they're true, he's got a lot of issues period, i'm pretty sure these are just headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:23:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissRainbow/pseuds/LittleMissRainbow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Growing up is never easy, even for (someone as terrifying as) Akutsu Jin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pent up

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't something you should write on Fathers' Day.
> 
> oh well.

 

You are three years old and you’re confused.

You don't know much, but you do know that you hate seeing Mommy cry.

Is that man your father? You could never be sure. He looks scary.

He has a loud voice. He yells at Mommy a lot. You too, but that doesn't matter. You don't like that. Mommy says you look so much like him, and you don't like that even more.

But you don't tell her that.

 

**.**

 

You are five years old and you don’t really know what to do.

The yelling has stopped. The man's gone, too. It's good because you hated it—hated _him_ —but Momma doesn't think the same. You hear her cry every night, but she doesn't say anything, so you don't say anything either.

The neighbors say a lot, though, and it makes you want to scream at them.

So you do.

 

**.**

 

You are eight years old and you’re angry.

You're in the principal's office again. The old man's telling you that it’s not nice to hit people.

It's not like it's your fault—that pansy started it, running his mouth and trying to tell you what to do. So you tell the principal the same thing you told him. The old man sweats his wig off and for the third time that week, he lets you go with nothing but a nervous warning. You see his secretary rushing in after you as you leave, holding a glass of water and a small paper bag, but you pay it no mind.

Later as you walk home, your knuckles blooming in angry shades of red and blue, you hear the old women from across the street, whispering about you and your mother and how _he’s grown to be such a problem child; has his mother no shame?_

Don't the hags have anything better to do than mind other people's business? Then you hear them gossiping about how much you remind them your deadbeat father.

It only takes one glare to shut them up.

 

**.**

 

You are ten years old and you're bored.

After years of counseling, you finally agreed to learn how to play tennis. There's a professional tennis player who's going to teach you, but you don't really care about that. Mom says she's proud of you, but that doesn't matter either. You just agreed to get them off your back.

You suppose it wouldn't really hurt—maybe it'd be good for killing time. And for a while, it does.

But it’s just too easy.

You’re talented, incredibly so—or so your tennis coach tells you as you butcher another point from him. He’s a pro, isn’t he? If you, a beginner, could actually win multiple games against a so-called pro, does that mean he’s just really weak? Or are you just immensely strong?

It doesn’t take long before you beat everyone else—every single “strong player” they have to offer. Left them broken, beaten-down, and probably giving up tennis forever.

So you quit. What’s the use of tennis when no one could even give you a challenge; when no one could spark a fire in you?

You look for other ways to kill time.

But you're still so bored.

 

**.**

 

You are twelve years old and you hate the world as much as it hates you.

People avoid you on the streets. They know better than to mess with you. Some idiots still try, but they always end up with their tails between their legs. It makes your mother cry, but you can't really find it in you to care anymore. No one orders you around.

You're just too strong, too violent, too dangerous—everyone knows that. Except perhaps that boy Kawamura. He doesn't seem to get it. He doesn't seem to care that you could beat him into a pulp. He still talks to you even after you humiliated that useless captain of his.

He's weird. Maybe too much sushi screws you up in the head. Still, you let him hang around you. He's not _that_ irritating, after all.

Not that you tell him that.

 

**.**

 

You are fifteen years old and everyone is so stupid, it’s frustrating.

There's this kid who’s made it his life’s mission to follow you around. Some people call Dan Taichi incredibly polite; you just think he's annoying with his constant "Akutsu-senpai! Akutsu-senpai!" He kind of reminds you of Kawamura, except Dan's even more of an airhead.

You find him a pain, but you leave him be. He's not so bad to be around, especially since you're back in the tennis club where your teammates either look at you like the plague or curse you to hell and back. It doesn't really matter—they don't have the guts to tell you to leave. They need you too much, and you don't really have any qualms reminding them of the fact.

You joined the tennis club because that old man said you'll get to fight strong people. You laughed at that. How ridiculous—there's no one stronger out there than you.

Still, you caved. Maybe you wanted to prove him wrong, maybe you wanted to prove yourself wrong. You don't really know yourself.

Somehow, you find one: Echizen Ryoma. He's unlike the others who nattered on and on about experience and yelled out empty threats. He's a lot better. For a cocky brat his size, he actually puts up a fight. You find that, even for a little bit, you're actually having fun.

Then you lost. For once in your life, you actually lost. You got what you wanted: someone lit the fire, alright—and it burned down the whole forest. Now there’s nothing left. You’d laugh at the irony, but you just can’t find it in you anymore. Now you feel how those weaklings felt when you grind them to dust. Except the feeling is empty, hollow.

You reveled at their ashes, but you can’t weep over yours like them as you have none. You don't feel disappointed about the loss at all, but that only frustrates you even more. You feel disgusted with yourself; to actually want to feel that way—what's wrong with you?

So you do the only sane thing you could do: you quit. After all, what's the use of continuing to play tennis after losing? Tennis is nothing to you. You won't get anything out of it anymore. Dan tries to stop you, but you've made up your mind. He should, too—he should stop screwing around and actually hold a racket for once; you tell him as much.

Kawamura tries to stop you too, but he knows it's a lost cause. You've finally given up tennis for good. Except you're not really sure about that. In fact, you're not really sure about anything anymore.

But you don't say anything, of course.

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments are better than Yamabuki's resident bad boy (or not)
> 
> *flies away*


End file.
